


Enlightened

by traceylane



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:14:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traceylane/pseuds/traceylane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Castiel gets some answers.</p><p>-Pre-apocalypse, where everything's pretty fresh and new Earth-wise for Cas.-</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enlightened

**Author's Note:**

> Up to the end of S5, I believe... My first work in this fandom and online in general, so comments or any kind of notification that you're reading this at all would be awesome ^^ Wow these notes make me sound really stiff and serious no guys you don't understand I just don't know how this works also I was experimenting with writing styles i'm sorry omf
> 
> Please enjoy, though. <3

Fate  
  
was always a mystery to Castiel.  
Like a rule you had to follow

  
("But why, Father?")

  
  
that didn't make sense, but for the sake of obedience was simply obeyed.  
  
Dean Winchester

rivaled Fate by being an enigma all on his own. Despite being rigid bone and blood and muscle, his mind was a tangled mess, and to say his soul was "scarred" was a bit of an understatement. After all, hadn't Castiel himself felt every cut and burn?

  
  
(And hadn't it been he who had wiped them all away?)

  
  
And like with Fate, Castiel had questions.  
  
“Why keep running from the inevitable? Why keep fighting what was meant to be?”

And like with his Father, it wasn't really an argument. He just really wanted to know.

  
  
(But it's funny because Castiel always asked in a way that was meant to make Dean seem like the fool.)

  
  
But then

  
  
(And this is where the similarities stopped)

  
  
Dean would answer.  
  
Answer with his voice, with taut shoulders and crossed arms, with one of those hard, lasting looks that said, quite clearly, _There is no such thing as fate_.

  
  
(Which only posed more questions.  
Which was good for Castiel, who was getting the hang of posing questions.)  
  
\---

He was reluctant at first, but he came around.

 

(Castiel, not Dean. Never Dean.)

 

Because coming down to Earth put everything into perspective for Cas. Humanity was violent, it was grotesque and full of sin, but it had so much depth, so much life and energy.

Dean Winchester, in particular, had a terrifying amount of depth. Like he had a hole drilled deep through that surface of classic rock and dry humor, in that ocean of incantations and aged whiskey, a pit filled with anger and pain and _Why did I ever come back._

Early on, whenever Castiel looked at Dean

 

 (Which even then was a lot of the time)

 

he stared like a scientist through his microscope.

Logged what he could see, could feel if he stood close enough. Blood-warm with big, callused hands and those crinkles around his eyes when he smiled. Held a gun like an extension of his arm, held steady when he pulled the trigger. Smelled like something Castiel liked, a mixture of sun and laundry detergent that was faint but nice beneath the occasional layer of dust and blood and—

 “Personal space, Cas.”

So Castiel tried something more than visuals before finding it even harder to stick to his original intention of divine detachment.

Because, Lord Almighty, there was so much more.

Good feelings. Bad feelings.

 

(Though more of the latter, for Dean.)

 

Battles, many quick but never painless. Battles lost or won.

 

 (And Dean had won so many, but you could hardly tell, really, with how he treated his victories like scraps of paper and his losses like heavy chains.)

 

Hopes and fears.

 

 (Dean denied himself any high hopes, so almost all of the ones he did keep involved avoiding his fears, which were darker than anything that could ever be imaginable. Dean did not have to imagine fear.

It was what Castiel suspected lied at the bottom of that abyss of Dean’s—if it even had a bottom.)

\---

Castiel had heard from someone, somewhere, that humans were like watches. Faces and hands and gears, tick-tick-ticking until they just… weren’t. And that was it.

But now that was obviously impossible, because his father must have put in much more effort than that.

 

 (So Castiel tried to justify himself, because God loved Dean, too.)

\---

The apocalypse came closer and closer, and Castiel would disappear for a few hours at a time just to walk around.

Part of it was just watching, just observing

 

(He would count parking meters, memorize the buildings on the street, know swing sets and sandwich shops.

Because maybe it was another responsibility of his, to know where things used to be. Who else would be there to really remember?)

 

But a lot of it was thinking. About how it all would look when it became a wasteland, about his brother replacing every bit of Dean beneath that leather jacket and thick skin, about the world torn in two in hopes of creating an impossible paradise.

 

 (Impossible? No, not impossible.)

 

It was all about the end, which was inevitable, unavoidable, planned and ready to execute if Dean would only take on his role.

But as of late, the angel found that this particular role of Dean’s was far from Castiel’s selfish ideal.

  
(Which was what Castiel wished he could have told him from the very beginning: _Dean Winchester, I want you to stay.)_

  
  
(Then, even worse: _Dean Winchester, I want to stay with you_.)  
  
\---

The day was here, but Dean had yet to step up.

 

(Or rather, step down.)

 

His resistance was a

 

(fairly unsurprising)

 

surprise, and truthfully Castiel would have cheered if Heaven hadn’t found a way around the obstacle.

Because Castiel couldn’t blind himself anymore. Fate was no longer an _unknown_ —it was something worse, a future filled with fire and chaos and Dean bloody, Dean dead, Dean gone.

  
  
(And he kept praying,  
My Father, none of this can possibly be right.  
  
And it was no longer a question because Castiel already knew very well how low they had sunk.)

 

Now the walls were already caving in and they were all up to their knees in the rain from the storm that would not stop.

So it was with a bit of panic that Dean turned to Castiel and stated

“You’re either with or without me, Cas.”

 

(“Help me.”)

 

And anger flared up in Castiel’s head, the kind of anger that had him struggling to keep his voice level, so every word came out as if he didn't want them to leave his mouth.

At least they would have, if he could give Dean and answer, because that was not Castiel’s decision to make.  

 

(It wasn’t even much of a contest, really;

Between betraying everything he was, everything he had ever known

For a human he had known for a second in comparison to an angel’s eternity.)

 

“Castiel’s decision” had already been made a long, long time ago. And Dean knew that, he knew that and yet he was so damned _insolent_ with his stupid little “ultimatum” that so arrogantly suggested that Castiel could possibly be on his side.

And Dean was practically on his knees, but Castiel knew he was full of it, so smug behind his desperate façade.

He was also very, very right.

So Castiel kissed him because it was the only available choice.

It was quick and not very graceful at all, but it was urgent and long overdue.

 

(They were left breathless by the time they broke apart.

Castiel because the windows hadn’t blown in and his wings hadn’t left their mark on the cold floor.

Dean because up until that moment the only thing that he could really understand about his jumbled feelings for Castiel was its intensity.

It was all coming together, now.)

 

“And what was that for?”

“It was a test.”

 

(Castiel was still gripping the collar of Dean’s jacket, digging his nails into it like it was the only thing keeping him from flying into oblivion.)

 

“A test for what?”

“To see if I was with you or not.”

 

(And the universe stopped its spinning as Dean remembered it was just about to collapse around him.)

 

 “…And?”

“You passed.”

 

(And soon it came to the point where the walls had turned to dust and they were drowning in the wake of the hurricane.

But regardless of how hard the wind blew

Castiel would hold it off.

He would hold it all off.)


End file.
